One Of These Days
by hashtagartistlife
Summary: Maybe one of these days, their two worlds would become one. [Ichiruki]


**Written for the darling duckiesteasmiles' birthday! (And also for the deathberryprompts' weekly prompt, 'memory'. Multitasking ftw?) 6 pages of pure, unashamed fluff. I hope you had the best of days, Nami my dear!**

* * *

 **one of these days**

by _hashtagartistlife_

The first thing Rukia does when she gets back to the human world is drag Ichigo ice-skating.

Well, ok, that's a lie. The first thing she does in the human world is stab him, kick him, yell at him, slash at him with a sword, then jump in front of _another_ sword for him, in that order. Look, it doesn't even faze Ichigo anymore; that's just how the tempo of their relationship goes. He's long since learned not to try and deconstruct their bond to fit conventional labels. They are what they are, and Ichigo finds it's much easier to keep things like that than try to figure out just what exactly they may be to each other.

All he knows is that he's glad she's back.

Maybe that's why he doesn't say a word of protest when Rukia barges in through his window two days later, throws him a few layers of clothes and drags him out onto the street. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet and babbling so fast he doesn't even register what she's saying— but admittedly, he's not listening very intently. It's barely been 48 hours since his reiatsu has been returned, and he's still getting (re)accustomed to the sensation of _power_ thrumming in his veins.

… Well, that and he's too busy staring at her; her small face is lit up with excitement, and the afternoon light is golden and hazy, lending a softness to her usually-sharp features. He watches her prattle on about something-or-other, and he can't help it, despite everything; a smile curls the corner of his lips, and his wrist where she holds it is pleasantly warm. If he concentrates, through the heady mix of everyone's reiatsus inside him, he can feel _hers_ ; somehow calm and _burning_ at the same time. It both soothes and fires him up, this little piece of her strength within him; and he thinks that as long as he can hold it there, there's nothing on earth that will be able to tear him down again.

"—and so—are you even _listening_ to me, Ichigo?" Rukia's sharp voice cuts through his reverie, and he focuses on her; her petulant expression reminds him inexplicably of Yuzu, and he can't help the smile that tugs on the corner of his lips.

"Yeah, yeah, go on," he says, and Rukia glares at him, apparently not convinced he is paying attention.

"And _so,"_ she says, pausing to check that he's still listening (he is), "we're going ice-skating!"

He blinks. And blinks again. She's holding out a hand to him, expectantly (imperiously), and he blinks one more time.

"I'm sorry, what—?"

She smacks him upside the head. "I knew you weren't listening, fool!" she berates. "Ice-skating, Ichigo! Take me ice-skating again! I wasn't _prepared_ last time, this time I'll show you how much I've improved!"

Something tugs at his chest in an odd way at this declaration; to his horror, he feels what might be _tears_ gathering in the corners of his eyes. He pulls away from her and blinks several times to clear them of the unwanted dampness, hoping she won't notice what he's doing. She'd never let him live it down.

"Ichigo—?" Yeah, he should be so lucky. Rukia's peering up at him with a worried expression, a hand at his wrist again; ever since her return, she's been far more touchy-feely with him, as if to reassure herself that he is indeed still solid and not smoke through her fingers. He doesn't mind; he won't ever admit it out loud, but sometimes he needs the reassurance, too. She looks far too ethereal, far too otherworldly for him to be entirely comfortable on occasions. This is one of those occasions—the backlighting of the sun makes her outline hazy, turning her hair to gold and making her look like she'll dissolve into thin air. Only the touch of her fingertips at his wrist, comfortingly steady and warm, grounds him to the reality that she is back, _he_ is back, and they won't part again, if he has anything to say about it.

"I'm fine," he says, a little mulishly, which smooths out the anxiety in her brow and returns the customary touch of irritation to it. "Just embarrassed in advance for you at how much you'll be outclassed. By me. Again."

"Oh!" Rukia throws his hand down (he misses her touch already) and crosses her arms in indignation; she jabs a finger in his face menacingly. "Just you wait, you overgrown lump, I'll show _you!_ Who between the two of us had an ice-type zanpakutou again?"

"Well, that's even more embarrassing, then," he replies, smirking, and the two of them bicker all the way to the skating rink; if his hand somehow finds its way into hers, and she doesn't let it go for the entire journey there, neither of them see fit to mention it.

* * *

"So why are _they_ here again?" Ichigo mutters in irritation as he watches six shinigami wreak havoc on the ice-skating rink. It's only been five minutes, and already there's at least two crying kids and three confiscations—two wooden swords and a _shuriken_ , what the hell, Renji. If they're not careful, the entire party was going to be kicked out on their asses, all before he even sets foot on the ice. "Don't you guys ever have, like _work_ to do?"

"Which is why only the lieutenants are here today!" Rukia insists, as she wrangles the laces on her own skates. "Well, and a third seat and a fifth seat," she amends as Ikkaku and Yumichika skate by, one aggressively, one sedately. Both of them wave at her and she waves enthusiastically back. "I invited nii-sama and Captain Hitsugaya, too, but they refused on grounds of paperwork. I invited Captain Kyouraku, too, actually, but Ise-san refused on grounds of paperwork, heh. And Captain Ukitake decided to give it a pass, and of course, Kiyone-san and Sentaro-san wanted to stay back after that. And Lieutenant Kusajishi—"

"Jesus, did you invite _everyone_ in the Seireitei?" Ichigo interrupts, reevaluating his current situation and feeling intensely thankful that Yachiru and Kenpachi hadn't shown up. Hell, he's glad _Byakuya_ hadn't shown up. Imagine what a clusterfuck that would have been. "The hell were you thinking?"

"Why do you sound so _annoyed?"_ she counters, straining to tighten her laces. Ichigo huffs and kneels before her, knocking her hands away to do it himself. "And I can do that!"

"The laces are biting into your hands," he points out dryly, nodding to the red welts on her palms. She flushes and shoves her hands deep into her pockets. "And I'm not annoyed, just… surprised." Was that what it was? Yeah, that was definitely what it was. He ignores the niggling feeling that that wasn't quite the word he was looking for and concentrates on tying her skates up instead.

Rukia snorts. "What, so you can invite all your friends to the skating rink, but I can't? Did you think I had no friends apart from the ones I made in the Gensei, fool?"

Now it's Ichigo's turn to flush. "Wha—that's not what I meant, and you know it—"

A hand on his head stills him. Rukia's laughing, one hand over her mouth, the other in his hair, patting him like a child. He's momentarily transfixed by the shadows her eyelashes cast on her marble-pale cheeks. "Oh, Ichigo, you're too easy," she chides, and he still has no words for her; the echoes of her laughter, bell-clear, are still ringing in his ears. He knows, right there and then, that he wants to hear her laugh like that for the rest of his life.

Her eyes soften; in the almost-sunset light, they're not as unfathomable, not as _old_ as they sometimes are. They're the deep, warm colour of plum wine, edges lit gold by the sun, and the molten affection in them goes straight to the centre of his bones and warms him from within. "I simply thought," she says, voice low and soft and just for the two of them, "that you might appreciate the fact that they're back. That _we're_ back. They're your friends too, Ichigo. Never forget that if I have friends in the Gensei, you have them in the Seireitei as well."

The warmth in his bones blooms into something larger than the both of them; they're still locking gazes and he feels like he's drowning in sunlight, so different to the drowning he's been doing for the past seventeen months. His hands are still resting loosely on her feet; Rukia breaks away from their little bubble first, looking down at her now-laced skates and smirking. She shakes her feet and Ichigo jolts, withdrawing his hands from her as if burned.

"Bows? Really? That's cute, Ichigo!" she says, and indeed, her skates are done up immaculately, double-knotted and finished off in perfect bows. Ichigo goes red and mutters something about demanding little sisters, and Rukia's smirk grows wider. She jumps up and takes his hand again, drags him behind her in her excitement to get to the ice.

"C'mon, Ichigo, last one on the ice is a rotten grape~"

"It's _egg_ , Rukia, it's _egg_ , and wait, I still haven't got my skates on yet—!"

* * *

They skate till nightfall, just like the last time. Thankfully, the shinigami behave themselves after the initial five minutes, which may or may not have something to do with Toshiro showing up late and threatening them all with paperwork for years. Said Captain was currently skating leisurely with his hands behind his back, Hinamori chattering beside him about childhood days spent on frozen rivers. Renji was as awful as Rukia had been seventeen months ago, and spent the majority of his time clinging to Ikkaku, who was equally as bad but was managing to stay upright by dint of how angrily he was skating; his skates left long gouge marks on the ice, and he was being given a wide berth by fellow skaters. Yumichika had been suspiciously perfect at the whole thing, until Rukia had pointed out the subtle light of kido along the bottom of his skates keeping him upright. Rangiku wasn't half bad, but she seemed far more interested in 'accidentally' falling on top of poor Izuru (and complete strangers) and laughing at the results.

And Rukia? Well. Ichigo looks at the tiny shinigami skating circles round her friends, and tries to suppress a smile. She skates back to him with stars in her eyes, and he steadies her by grabbing her shoulders.

"Still haven't got the hang of stopping on my own," she laughs, breathless, and he quells the matching laughter that rises in his throat; he isn't sure why he is like this. He doesn't usually laugh so easily or smile without provocation, but something about her unfiltered joy is affecting him, too. "Well? How am I?"

He clears his throat. "Passable. At least I didn't have to hold your hand the whole time like some kid."

She elbows him in the ribs and he doubles over. "Fool! Not like I needed your help last time, too!"

"Oh yeah? I seem to remember a little differently," he wheezes, holding onto his sides. He might've forgotten how lethal her knobbly little limbs can be, but he distinctly remembers the warm grasp of her hands in his. Not that he'll tell her that.

"Your memory is faulty, then," she declares, imperious, before turning her gaze to the trees that line the skating rink. They are bare, now, without a single leaf on any of them, but she hesitates, her eyes lingering over their stark form against the darkening sky.

"What?" he asks. She takes a while to reply.

"The—the cherry blossoms. Did you come to see them?" she asks, her back to his; her question is quiet but he doesn't need to strain to hear her words at all. His heart beats too loud in his chest.

"Yeah," he says, voice thick. An absurd question occurs to him, and before he can think it through, he's asking her too: "Did you?"

A beat of silence. Then—

"Yes," she breathes, turning to him; her face is shadowed but her eyes are clear, sprinkled with the light from the stars above them. "Once. In the spring. You weren't here, and I was on a mission but I—I wanted to, anyway."

He swallows. She doesn't move and he's still too but somehow they're tending towards each other, like asymptotes afraid to meet the axis; what comes after when immutable laws of the universe are upended? She _here_ and he _there_ , so close when they should never have been; or is this, too, an immutable law of the universe? Were _they_ also just one of the many ways the world works, like gravity, like the seasons, like the cycle of life and death? She's still staring at him with the world written into her expression and neither of them are moving towards each other, and yet, and yet—

Somehow, their faces are inches from the other's when the sounds of a large explosion jolts them out of their mutual reverie; they look up to the sky just in time to see it lit up with fireworks, and then they're swamped by everyone else, all carousing rowdily. Renji hooks an arm around Ichigo's shoulder and almost brings the both of them down; Hinamori and Rangiku slip their arms through each of Rukia's and natter at her about the fireworks, pointing out colours and shapes in the sky. Ikkaku and Yumichika circle them all, and Toshiro and Izuru hang back slightly, content to watch the noisy party as fireworks continue to rain down droplets of light above them. Ichigo and Rukia's eyes meet through the fray, and they break into wide, matching smiles.

 _Next time,_ her eyes seem to promise him, and he'll hold her to that; the night air is cold, but he feels heady and warm. He headlocks Renji into sprawling on the ice with him, and Rukia laughs at them both. The seventeen-month flood in his heart eases up.

Maybe next time they visit, it'll be early spring; still cool enough for the rink but with the first vestiges of pink and green touching the trees. Maybe next time they visit, he'll invite all his friends and she hers; maybe next time they visit, they won't have that distinction. Tatsuki would get along well with Ikkaku and Renji; Inoue would be good friends with Hinamori and Mizuiro would probably enjoy Izuru's company. Maybe next time they visit, the two worlds he's living in—apparently so diametrically opposed—will have reconciled a little.

A tall order, he admits. But Rukia's eyes, shining in the light of the moon, make him believe in stranger things happening.

Their hands, surreptitiously linked once more amid the din, is proof of that.


End file.
